


Give them blood

by Himboskywalker



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Biting, Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, M/M, Vampire Obi-Wan Kenobi, biting kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:07:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himboskywalker/pseuds/Himboskywalker
Summary: In the midst of the Clone Wars Obi-Wan is bitten by an alien creature that forces him to live off human blood.During a campaign on Eadu it becomes a complication under blockade and Anakin is determined to not let his stubborn master starve.This has nothing to do with the way his stomach flips at the sight of Obi-Wan's sharpened fangs, not at all.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker
Comments: 34
Kudos: 652





	Give them blood

**Author's Note:**

> Happy early Halloween everyone!!!!I finally made a contribution to kinktober for the first time in my life,so have the shameless self indulgence before you,which is nothing but my crippling vampire/biting kink.

It started on Hissrich, entrenched in the planet’s jungles, amongst the choking pits of roots and the squelching, spongy ground. They caught cover beneath the forest’s thickest canopy at least, where the trees grew tall and dense at the base of a jagged mountain range which hung thick with white fog even under the midday sun. That fog slithered down the rocks and between the twisting branches from evening till late morning and coated all of their gear damp and sticky.

Obi-Wan, arms crossed over the white of his chest armor, directed their troops where to plant their tents, weapons cargo boxes, rations crates and munitions caches. Anakin stood beside him, irritably swatting at mosquitoes the size of his fist, and shoving humid, tacky curls out of his eyes.

“How long do you think this campaign will last, master?”

Obi-Wan flickered him a wry expression. “Shall we ask the Separatists? I’m sure if you notify them you’re not fond of the weather they might try and speed up the rate of their attacks.”

Anakin rolled his eyes and swatted a mosquito against his neck. “Laugh it up, you’re going to be just as miserable as me, I give it a week.”

It didn’t take a week.

Hours later in the dead of night Anakin bolted upright from his cot, shocked from deep sleep into heart pounding clarity from the sound of a gut turning screech that sent goosebumps skittering down his arms to bristle his hairs on end. He grabbed his saber and burst into the swampy night the same moment Obi-Wan careened from his own tent, saber drawn and washing their dark surroundings cerulean.

“What the hell was that?” He gasped out, cold sweat prickling the back of his neck and plastering his sleep tunic against his shoulder blades.

“I don’t—”

That same horrifying shriek sent them both into shocked silence and roused half the 501st and 212th in a sweeping wave of tent lights flickering on and their men peaking bleary eyes into the night.

“Force—it sounds like a rancor getting its throat slit.”

They both grimaced through another echoing scream, though lowered their sabers as a fully armored trooper in 501st blue came skidding through the tents.

“It’s something big, sirs. Punch, from the north watch reported it’s coming from the canopy, it either climbs or has wings.”

“Has it made to attack anyone?” Obi-Wan asked.

“No, general, just screaming like Sithspawn.”

“Double the watch just to be sure, lets hope its scream is far worse than its bite.”

Anakin hardly slept that night, his teeth set on edge from the ghoulish screeches echoing through the forest and alighting his nerves every time he fell into a doze. The next morning the whole camp blearily roused and tromped through deeper entrenchment and other duties, soldier and general alike wearing the same purple bruises beneath their eyes.

“Did you get any sleep?” Anakin rasped, slurping at a cup of caf so strong it was practically a solid in his tin cup.

Obi-Wan gave him a look he knew extraordinarily well and delighted in eliciting every time. “It was much like listening to you complain about the weather of every planet we land on.”

He snorted into his caf and cracked a yawn around the rim of his cup. “Funny, and I thought it sounded a lot like you complaining about me breathing. Anakin— _Anakin—_ ANAKIN!”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes and ignored him, just as Anakin suspected he would, rendering the entire interaction so typical it might as well have been recited from a script.

The Separatists, as it happened, had no regard for their lack of sleep or that Anakin was only halfway through his caf when the first line of battle droids broke through the trees, appearing in the mist like flipped on holos. It was all kriffing stupid, he thought with a snarl as he fought back to back with Obi-Wan, ricocheting blaster bolts with the humming line of his saber. It was stupid as bantha shit that both the 501st and 212th were pulled to protect these far-flung mines who no one had ever heard of. But the senate said jump so they jumped, or entrenched in some force forsaken jungle and fought battle droids on no sleep.

As evening drew on and the fog gathered dense as soup in the jungle underbrush, the droids retreated and left them to tighten their defense line and lick their wounds. Anakin sat beside Obi-Wan on an overturned fuel cannister and ate his dehydrated meal straight from the slit open packet. It crunched between his teeth, grainy from using tepid water from his hip canteen, since he was too exhausted and far too hungry to bother heating water as Obi-Wan had done.

They ate silently as dusk flickered to true night, the golden sun shuttering behind the trees to make way for the twin half moons rising through the branches. Obi-Wan did sigh into his own meal packet when the first harrowing screech echoed through the camp and his shoulders sagged a little when it continued on. “Another restless night it would seem,” he quipped with a half-smile, trying even then to maintain a good spirit.

Anakin made no such effort and scowled as he slopped the last ectoplasm reminiscent glop of food into his mouth and sourly contemplated the way his entire body ached. “None of the men got a read on it last night, did they?”

“No, but perhaps tonight.”

Anakin paused from where he squeezed his packet against his mouth to chase the last of his meal and regarded Obi-Wan in the dim light of the glowlamp sitting between their feet. He wore tiredness much better than anyone Anakin knew. Dark circles rimmed his eyes and his shoulders slumped beneath his pauldrons, but his auburn hair hung rakish over his forehead, and the dirt smeared across his cheek merely made the blue of his eyes stand out more. But more than that, kindness gilded the light of his master’s soul and cast every line of him; the war honed shape of his hands, the violence etched on his back and ribs, the cruelties of life that might have hardened anyone else, it cast all of him honeyed and tender.

He cleared his throat and glanced away, fearful of being caught looking, as his master sometimes did.

The deathly jungle screeches carried them to bed and Anakin curled on his side on his cot and wondered if curling up in Obi-Wan’s arms would make the screaming any better. But whenever he contemplated such fantasies, they felt gossamer and intangible as spidersilk. He couldn’t imagine any reality in any galaxy where Obi-Wan, his master who had known and cared for him as a boy and snot nosed adolescent, would ever feel longing or want for him in return.

A day passed, then another—and another—and another. A week of little, broken sleep made them all sluggish and cranky and slanted his and Obi-Wan’s banter from its usual playfulness to flat out irritated bickering.

“If you would just—listen to me,” Anakin spat, jabbing the map laid out between them.

“It’s far too dangerous,” Obi-Wan snapped in return. “We have no idea if that’s where the creatures are nesting—and besides, Waxer’s scan was incredibly inconclusive. I don’t trust that even you could face one.”

“If we continue on like this the lack of sleep is what’s going to kill us—or our exhaustion while fighting the droids.”

“No, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, durasteel lacing his tone. “It’s reckless.”

In the end, their endless back and forth fighting over leading an attack into the forest at night was pointless when the creatures grew tired of circling their camp and howling in the night. They attacked in pairs, great beasts of shadow with leathery wings and long dripping fangs. They dropped from the canopy, yowling, and screeching as they ripped through the tents and clawed at the troopers, scrabbling with raking talons at their plastoid armor.

“You think waiting was a good idea now?” Anakin bit out, his back pressed to Obi-Wan’s as he waved his saber at one of the creatures to keep it, jaws snapping, at arm’s length.

“Oh do shut up.”

The wretched things were smart too, the pairs of them fought like Anakin and Obi-Wan did and they soon sought to pick their men apart, to separate them and make them fight alone. They also got angry, as Anakin learned when the harder he swung his saber at them to ward them off, the deeper they snarled and snapped their jaws, seeking to bite the lightsaber blades but knowing they shouldn’t.

They managed to separate him and Obi-Wan even, though he couldn’t figure how, as one moment they fought back to back and the next the force lurched like a missed step beneath his feet. He spun on his heel, snapping out with the force before he visually caught Obi-Wan scrambling at the soft earth as one of the creatures dragged him back by its jaws anchored around his boot.

“Master!”

He lunged after Obi-Wan and dug fingers around his wrists, anchoring him in the soil by muscle and a panicked yank of the force against the thrashing of the creature behind them throwing its head side to side as it chewed at Obi-Wan’s boot and left long, glistening strands of saliva stringing from leather to fangs.

“For fuck’s sake, Anakin, _kill it!”_ Obi-Wan howled, throwing his mauled boot back to kick the thing straight in the teeth. It yipped and then lunged for Anakin, throwing itself forward in a tangled heap of sinewed limb and drooling fang.

The cut of his lightsaber through the thing’s wing only made it thrash and snap its teeth at him, but through its frantic snapping and the frenzied flapping of its shredded wings, he thrust his saber through its neck and wrenched it to the ground beside Obi-Wan.

Its partner howled, through retreated from his reach hurriedly, slithering back into the shadows between the tents with a piercing scream. All of the others in the camp took up answering screeches and flapped their wings, ascending back into the treetops as swiftly as they came.

Anakin panted for a moment, the night’s sticky heat settling around him and mingling with the sweat running down his back and slicking his mouth salty and chapped. And then Obi-Wan rolled onto his back and gasped raggedly as a barbed tug of acute pain leaked past his shields and lapped at the edges of Anakin’s mind like the worrisome ripples in an always placid pond.

“Whatever is in—its saliva burns—I’m afraid they might be venomous.”

Anakin slumped to his knees by Obi-Wan’s side and wrenched his half chewed through boot off his foot only to recoil back in disgust at the thick strings of slime and green cast to the veins spiderwebbing across the pale skin beneath the rivulets of fresh, deep red blood that glistened black under the washing light of his lit saber.

“Medic!” He called hoarsely, “General Kenobi needs a medic!”

Blind panic clouded his mind as he pressed shaking fingers to Obi-Wan’s shredded foot and felt how blistering hot his skin burned already, how the bit through flesh pulled tight and swollen. Obi-Wan’s teeth chattered as he paled and then wretched violently to the side in heaving gulps that left white foam on his mouth and flecking his beard.

“Kriff,” Kix muttered as he crouched beside Anakin. “We have to get you back to the _Negotiator,_ General, get you in bacta while we figure out what the hell these things are.”

Obi-Wan nodded jerkily, his lips tinging blue with onsetting shock while Anakin gripped at his ankle desperately and gathered up deep swaths of the force to shoddily dump over his force signature, attempting to heal and sooth even as fear made the work sloppy. But it seemed to help a little when Obi-Wan managed to sit, some color returning high on his cheeks so that he looked less like a corpse laid out in the spongy moss.

“Anakin,” he said, aggrieved, “I think I am going to pass out.” And then his eyes promptly rolled back, and he clocked out clean unconscious.

* * *

Master Che wiped her blue hands on a cloth as she walked into the hall, the door to the private healer room pressure sealing behind her with a quiet hiss.

“Well,” she said calmly while Anakin tried not to crawl out of his own skin. “I have good news and…perhaps not bad news, but certainly strange.”

“Alright?” He croaked.

“The creatures that attacked you on Hissrich are Hadaran Corpse Walkers, an almost extinct creature very rarely seen. You and your men landed during their hatching season, incredibly poor timing as they are usually not so aggressive. They are carnivorous and feed exclusively on warm blood from other mammals, humanoids specifically, when it is available to them.”

“What does that mean?”

She sighed at his strained interruption and tucked her hands into the sleeves of her robe. “It is rare that a bitten victim of these creatures survives, none of your men who were bit survived the wounds. But their venom carries a contagious toxin that renders the infected unable to process solid food, only vertebrae humanoid liquidized protein and glucose.”

He blinked at her as his heart picked up speed in his chest, pounding a heavy beat as panic lit his veins with adrenaline. “What does that mean? Will he starve?”

“Certainly not, Master Kenobi will live, his lifestyle will simply be somewhat altered. He can only metabolize humanoid blood now, though thankfully will eat far less often than before. There may be some other side effects, though as I said, survivors of this venom are very rare, and we do not yet know all of them.”

He imagined the sight of Obi-Wan trying to choke down a teacup of blood with resigned dignity and ached horribly in the hall. Hadn’t his master suffered enough? Wasn’t the war and the burdens he carried already more than the great Master Kenobi should ever have to endure? And now this? He hated himself in that moment, for not being quick enough, for letting his master get dragged back through the dirt, for failing him again and costing him so much.

“What other side effects?”

“Heightened predatory senses; strength, scent, healing, this might be a blessing on the battlefield, the great General Kenobi will be even harder to kill than he already is.” Her lips twisted up fondly, Obi-Wan tended to incite the fondness in everyone in the order.

“Can I see him?” He forced out while his ears range oddly.

“Yes of course, he is awake and in good spirits. Do not be disheartened, Knight Skywalker, this is merely a minor divergence of your master’s norm.”

Sure enough, when he entered the healer’s room in a twisted up knot of worry and heartache, Obi-Wan blinked back at him from the bed, looking tidy and comfortable and as if he hadn’t been puking his stomach lining up in the Outer Rim a rotation before.

“You look surprisingly well for getting mauled by a demonic, blood sucking bat.”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes and pulled himself up to sit straighter against his pillow. He still looked a little sallow, some odd tinge of gray hollowed out his under eyes and made his irises look eerily sharp in the artificial light.

“Why do I feel like this will just be another tally mark for when you like to remind me of how many times you’ve saved my life?”

Anakin sat by his side and strangled down the urge to take his master’s hands in his. Obi-Wan loathed being fussed over, but all he could think of was how Obi-Wan would never be able to drink his favorite tea again and how that made his stomach turn over with sorrow and guilt.

“Master Che told me about your new diet.”

Obi-Wan grimaced and rubbed at his upper lip. “I suppose there are worse things. I would like to protest and say it sounds terrible but I’m afraid my pallet has quite transitioned already to make it bearable. And…well—”

He pulled back his upper lip and Anakin stared at the straight line of his white teeth for a confused moment, only to jerk at the sharp snick of two elongated canines pressing through his gums, long enough that their sharp tips caught against Obi-Wan’s bottom lip.

“O—oh,” he breathed, as some snarled tangle of heat flipped in his gut and sent his pulse skittering. He told himself it was startlement, anxiety or nerves even at so drastic and sudden a change, at the worries to come from it in the future.

The fangs retreated and Obi-Wan licked his gums with a look of discomfort. “On the bright side,” he lilted, “I never have to suffer a ration bar again.”

* * *

A month later and nearly the entire time spent apart with Anakin sent back into the field with the 501st while Obi-Wan recuperated and adjusted at the temple, they finally found themselves reunited for a long siege on Eadu. The initial planetary assault, made in torrents of rain washed sideways by the high winds, dragged slow and slogging and it was amongst a bare, hastily made camp in the thick mud that they settled in for the first night.

The tent arrangements, as they often were during hasty planetary movements, were double capacity until they truly settled camp. As such, it was in a shared tent that they sat around a small, portable stove, Anakin heating a plastic dehydrated meal pouch and Obi-Wan heating a tin cup of blood poured from a med bag.

He couldn’t help but stare, at the coagulated and thick sludge of it in the cup, startlingly dark and even more startling when it painted a brief scarlet smear against Obi-Wan’s bottom lip when he took the first sip. Anakin blinked, still as a prey animal frozen in a light while his mind caught, strung on a wire between morbid fascination and a fried out feeling, like how the servos in his arm got sometimes hot and staticky.

Obi-Wan lowered the cup and said patiently, “you can ask you know.”

He swallowed dryly and watched Obi-Wan take another drink, his lips parted around thick, deep red. “Does it still taste like blood?”

Obi-Wan cleared his throat and settled the cup between his legs. “Not quite, no. It’s much like wine I suppose, thick and strong, though I have found that it all tastes different—depending on the type and the individual it came from I suppose.”

He couldn’t seem to break his eyes away from the blood in the cup as he rasped, “does it taste better fresh?”

Obi-Wan’s eyes rounded and he looked perfectly aghast. “ _Anakin—_ I would never—how terribly uncivilized—”

He laughed and the strung coil wound tight in his stomach unspooled at the familiar persnickety tone. He grinned into his meal pouch and talked around the mouthful of paste just because he knew Obi-Wan hated it. “How have the other symptoms been?”

Obi-Wan grimaced, as expected, and took a careful sip from his cup. “I still find the strength of my senses to be sometimes overwhelming, though otherwise I assure you I am well and much unchanged.”

In the days that followed, as they moved deeper on Eadu and entrenched in the plunging and craggy valleys between the planet’s high mountains against the waves of tankers and battle droids, he realized that Obi-Wan had greatly smoothed over his changes, ever the negotiator.

On the battlefield, amidst the sloughing rain and pits of sucking mud that squelched knee deep, lit by lightning and their own soldiers’ spotlights, Anakin found him much changed. He was an unholy force to be reckoned with, cutting through tanks and low atmosphere jets with a strength and vitality that astounded him and made even Cody stop short beside him just to watch the pure brutality of his saber movements mid battle. He struggled to keep up, sixteen years younger and supposedly so strong in the force and he fought with gritted teeth to not be left behind, to battle back to back with him as they always had in the past.

Even the Separatists, in their overwhelming numbers and far superior entrenchment, seemed to know when to fall back and rest against the otherworldly force they found themselves fighting against. It was in one such lull that Anakin stood under the shelter of a turned over tank, soaked to the bone with his overgrown curls and the layers of his tunics suctioned sopping and cold to his chilled skin. They all wore orange mud up to their knees and it caked to his elbows, under his nails, and even his saber hilt from sliding through all the muck.

He watched the clones swarming over the ground’s dredged up wounds while he caught his breath and wiped rivulets of water from his face. It was all a great big orange, squelching mess. The troops were going to bitch incessantly about trying to clean the sticky clay and muck out of their armor.

Through the curtain of gray rain Obi-Wan tromped through the slop, the mud slurping at his boots with every step until he pressed in beside Anakin to duck away from the rain.

“Much unchanged,” he snorted, peering sideways at his old master.

Obi-Wan smirked for a moment, and even soaked to his guts and with copper hair slicked against his scalp and orange mud staining his pale tunics, he looked so very much the Negotiator from the holos Anakin could have slapped him for the charming audacity of it.

“You didn’t know me when I was your age, maybe I’m just feeling a bit younger.”

Drenched and chilled to his spinal column, he crossed his arms and glared Obi-Wan down under their makeshift shelter. “Give that excuse to Cody, but let me know before you do so I can film it for Ahsoka.”

The days, filled with endless sleeting rain, sticky mud, and waves of battle droids, all blended into a seemingly endless tide of cold, damp misery. What was supposed to be a weeklong planetary siege crawled into two just as slow and tiresome as their glacial ground advancement. Each day seemed to grow longer and more exhausting and even Obi-Wan, with his durasteel strength and shattering viciousness to his every move, grew slower, weighted by the wet and cold and endless barrage of blaster fire.

They sat in the shallow and hasty enclave of a narrow trench, shoulders and knees pressed together in the mud while light rain trickled down their armor and the earthen walls. Anakin watched from the corner of his eye as Obi-Wan, with weariness written into his very bones, pulled a small blood bag from a satchel. His breath caught at the light snick of fangs and the wet puncture sound of Obi-Wan biting straight through the plastic and sealing his lips around the corner to quickly gulp its contents down.

Obi-Wan had taken to carrying them on him and Anakin shuddered for him when he knew how his master loathed to drink the blood cold and thick, straight from the plastic. But a part of him that he liked to ignore with Jedi diligence, shivered at the sideways glances of fangs and the swift strength of the way Obi-Wan bit through the bags and chugged, always wiping a smear of deep red from his lips afterwards. He told himself it was the casual show of strength, just the same as the way Obi-Wan wrenched his saber through durasteel tanks now, just the same as the way he could grab the head of a battle droid and pull and pull till wires sparked and metal split.

But if he dwelled on it at night in his cot, or looked sideways too long just to watch the way Obi-Wan’s throat worked when he swallowed, or the way that crimson sometimes split past his lips like berry wine, then he found excuses difficult to rationalize the way his gut flipped.

As it always went for them, the galaxy sought to make it worse before they felt any reprieve.

Cody and Rex both blinked at them, soaked to their blacks with weariness written into the lines of their faces, helmets tucked under their arms.

“Completely blocked?” Obi-Wan asked, hunched over a holomap.

“Yes, sir, we’re working to get communications through for an SOS to the rest of the fleet. But all supply lines have been cut off and today’s drop was intercepted.”

“What supplies were supposed to drop today?” Anakin replied tightly.

“Med supplies from the _Resolute,_ sir,” Cody responded. “Plasma, blood, bacta, stims and pain meds. The good news is we won’t run out of rations for a few weeks, but if the blockade keeps up…”

Obi-Wan drug a hand over his face and stroked his beard. “Thank you, Cody.”

It was a simple dismissal and the four of them were all aware, and even more aware of the heavy slant to Obi-Wan’s shoulders and the thin press of his mouth.

Cody cleared his throat just before he and Rex both stepped out of the tent. “—Sir—you don’t need to worry about us having enough bloodbags. Already talked to the medics and they gave the all clear.”

“Thank you for your concern, Commander,” Obi-Wan sighed.

It didn’t shock him, but it bubbled fury in his chest when he noticed the pale sheen to Obi-Wan’s skin days later. It took longer than it should have to realize, with his master’s soul deep vein of selflessness. But the constant cold and rain and mud colored them all gray and sallow and wrung thin as paper. And so it wasn’t till he glanced to Obi-Wan beside him in a trench, the both of them crawling through the orange, squelching mud on their elbows and stomachs, that he really noticed how thin and bruised the skin around his eyes looked.

“You’ve not been eating,” he hotly accused, feeling that his rage heated the water dripping from his lips to pure steam.

Obi-Wan blinked at him past his raindrop laden eyelashes and raked back a swath of hair. “I am,” he said simply. “Just less often, we _are_ under a blockade, Anakin.”

“And Cody told you to your face that you don’t need to worry about us running low on blood.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrowed, going hard and frustrated at that. “I won’t deprive our men of medical supplies and risk their lives under combat for it.”

“Oh,” he snapped back, “so you’ll just deprive them of a functioning general because you decided to starve yourself to death.”

“I am hardly starving, Anakin.”

The conversation fell short under a barrage of blaster fire when the company of droids past the trench spotted their less then surreptitious mud crawling. But Anakin noticed, with increasing twisted up fury and worry, that his master only grew paler as the days passed.

And when a handful of days blended into a week of gray rain and endless trenches full of endless mud and endless blaster fire, he watched Obi-Wan like a hawk, looking to see him swallowing red, for any color to return to his cheeks.

But sallowness gave way to testiness, short temper even.

* * *

Anakin yanked to unlace the leather strap of a pauldron and glared at Obi-Wan through the blue haze of the holoprojection between them. “All I’m saying is if we pulled the reserves for that left flank then—”

“It’s a good thing you’re not in charge then, since you seem so keen on getting your men butchered,” Obi-Wan snarled back.

Anakin froze, eyes widening as he swallowed down a hurt noise. Obi-Wan’s eyes widened in turn and he stepped away from the holo with a hand outstretched to him.

“Oh Anakin, I’m sorry pada—”

He slapped Obi-Wan’s hand away with a bitten off, animal sound clenched behind his teeth. “If you’d just fucking eat you wouldn’t be taking my head off like a cornered rancor.”

“ _Anakin,”_ he said in that tone. “I won’t—”

“If you won’t drink the kriffing bagged blood then you can drink mine before you drop.”

Obi-Wan scoffed at that and flipped off the holoprojector. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He wrenched off his other pauldron and slapped it to Obi-Wan’s cot as something tight and frenetic curled up in his chest. “I’m not being ridiculous. You won’t drink the bagged blood since you’re so desperate to be a martyr for the men, but we’re not short on food rations, so I’ll keep strong.”

Obi-Wan’s face slanted strained and horrified. “I appreciate your offer, Anakin, but I won’t—”

“ _Damnit Obi-Wan,”_ he snapped, “I’ll cut my arm open myself and force feed you if I have to, you’re kriffing starving. Don’t think I haven’t noticed—you haven’t eaten in weeks. You can’t go on like this—masochism isn’t the Jedi way, master. Don’t make me watch you kill yourself.”

Obi-Wan’s neck slumped and he braced his hands against the low table, head hanging between the arched points of his shoulders. “I—”

Anakin pulled his chest plate off and rose from the cot to lean his hip against the table and press his arm against Obi-Wan’s. “Master, _please_ let me help you. I can’t stand to see you in pain like this—please—”

“Alright,” Obi-Wan rasped, “if only to get you to be quiet for one force blessed moment.”

He took a ragged breath and lifted his head to smile at Anakin and they grinned at one another. Anakin rolled up the tunic sleeve on his flesh arm. “I’ll grab a knife.”

Obi-Wan put a hand on his shoulder to stop him and frowned, hesitating. “It might be easier if I—well my teeth secrete a—it numbs I think.”

“Alright,” he finished rolling his sleeve to his elbow and held out the underside of his arm. “Go ahead and bite me then.”

Obi-Wan wrapped featherlight fingers against his skin and paused, glancing up to meet his eyes. “If you’re sure—I don’t mind to—”

He huffed and lifted his arm as some, fluttering, unnamable lurch of nerves unfurled behind his ribcage. “Just shut up, will you?

Obi-Wan’s breath huffed across his skin and then the sound of his fangs parting through gums snicked deafeningly loud in the stillness of the tent. He didn’t dare to breath at the first press of his master’s sharp teeth against the shivery and tender line of his wrist. And he didn’t dare breath when his stomach jerked like the ground dropped out from under him at the first lance of hurt when two pricks of teeth broke skin.

He watched, rapt and caught, as his master ducked his head, that always wayward lock of hair falling across his forehead, and pressed his lips to flesh as his teeth sunk deeper. It hurt piercingly for several moments, with a bone deep ache that had him wincing before he could shutter his expression to neutral as Obi-Wan was so terribly skilled at doing.

Then the heated flush of hurt bled pinpricked and cool, true to Obi-Wan’s word, numbed so all he felt was the curious press of lips and a suction of pulling pressure. He watched, eyes drawn despite himself, to the swallowing movement of Obi-Wan’s throat and the flutter of his copper lashes against his cheekbones.

Anakin’s own lips parted on a tangled inhale as he caught the faint sound of wet gulping and shuddered through it. Obi-Wan’s fingers tightened around his arm and he made some muffled, startled noise and then broke his mouth from skin with a slick, red smear of blood against his bottom lip.

“Mmm—sorry,” he coughed, and wiped the back of his hand against his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” Anakin squeezed out, hyperaware of the rivulet of crimson crawling down his forearm towards the crease of his elbow.

“I think I bit too deep and I—it tastes different than the bags—it surprised me—”

“What do you mean it tastes different—bad different?”

They both watched, fascinated, as the two bitten wounds on his wrist closed up and slowed their oozing trickle.

“No,” Obi-Wan murmured, “Much better than cold and preserved really—thank you, Anakin. I feel much better.”

“Obi-Wan,” he protested, offering his arm back out, “you’ve hardly drank anything, that couldn’t have been enough.”

Obi-Wan pushed his arm away and brushed him aside. “No Anakin, it was more than enough, thank you. You best wrap that in bacta so it can heal.”

He wiped the smear of blood from his arm and ran bewildered fingers over the clean blue line of unbroken vein against his wrist. “No need, it’s healed already. Must be something pretty spectacular in that venom.”

The assault slogged on, filled with trenches and mud and rain, and they watched with growing unease as the supplies’ caches dwindled and the holos kept staticky and silent. He felt, sometimes, as if he lived with his teeth clenched tight and it only worsened as Obi-Wan’s mood did.

He grew paler, thinner, meaner in a way Anakin had never seen his whole life. He looked etched from marble, some cold and hardened thing, the lines of his face hammered like tank steel, the busted open ridges of his knuckles molded by cruelty and war. He seemed centuries old if only by the soul deep hunger in his eyes.

Sitting in knee deep orange clouded water with his back to a trench wall, Anakin looked to Obi-Wan beside him and felt like he might shatter apart. He yanked at the soaked sleeve of his tunic and held out the stretch of his forearm, cast deathly pale by a month of constant damp and chill.

“Master,” he said, voice shaking, “ _please.”_

Obi-Wan’s face crumpled before he could tilt his head away. “I can’t take this from you, Anakin. The food rations are cut—you have to keep up your strength.”

“I won’t go hungry— I can’t—I can’t watch you anymore— _please—”_

Obi-Wan stilled beside him, not even seeming to breathe through the light tinkling patter of raindrops against their armor and the durasteel of their saber hilts. “You tell me,” he said hoarsely, “if I begin to take too much.”

“Your stomach can’t even fit enough blood to hurt me,” he complained and waved his arm under Obi-Wan’s nose.

He sighed, a warm tickle of a breath across Anakin’s cool skin and then pressed his lips to the blue vein running along his inner wrist. “I won’t hurt you,” he murmured, warm and damp against his skin.

“I know,” Anakin said, feeling as if he chewed on coiled up wire to force it past his teeth. “That’s the point, master.”

Then came the ache of teeth piercing his skin and the cool wash of prickling numbness. And then—the feel of wet, hot, suction and his master’s tongue pushing against his skin as he worked to suck the blood from the wounds.

Anakin pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and tried to steady his breathing, hyperaware of the rapid, shallow rise and fall of his chest, of the way his pulse hammered like a clanker trying to beat its way out of his chest. Something tight and molten unfurled in his gut, like an armor forge turned over in his stomach to leak rivulets of melted copper down his spine.

Obi-Wan made a questioning noise against his skin and pulled his mouth away, licking at the blood pooling from the bite. “The taste of your blood changes when your pulse raises like that—are you alright?”

“Yeah—keep—keep going, I know you need more, master.”

For once in his obstinate life, Obi-Wan listened to him and pressed the warmth of his open lips back to the sluggishly bleeding bite. It was a curious feeling, of Obi-Wan sucking against the ache of the wound, pulling and gulping with the tug of his teeth and the wet slide of his tongue.

Hard—from far away and through a haze of static stuffing his mind and the force with white noise, he realized that his cock ached, completely hard between his legs. Realizing it, and the wet gulping of his blood passing his master’s lips, made it all the worse and all the more alarming.

“Uhh—” he wavered out, with no clear intent of what he actually wanted to say.

Any other stuttered out words tangled in his mouth and caught when Obi-Wan glanced up through his copper lashes at him and he made that noise—that kriffing noise he did when he took the first sip of his favorite tea, or expensive Corellian brandy, or some candied sweet delicacy. His stomach flipped with such a strong jolt of arousal it hurt and somehow—somehow Obi-Wan reacted to it, made an even more pleased noise as he sucked at his wrist and swallowed down his blood with heavy lidded eyes.

They were caught like that for force knew how long, sitting in the cold rain and mud, surrounded by tankers and blaster fire, with Anakin trying not to whine from how hard he ached under his tunics and Obi-Wan trying to retain his dignity while he sucked at his skin. By the time Obi-Wan shook himself and pulled away with a dazed expression, red smeared against his bottom lip and down his chin into his beard. Anakin shook with a fine tremor and throbbed with a dangerous edge to the pleasure he teetered on.

Obi-Wan didn’t look at him when he wiped his mouth and flushed. “Ahh—I’m sorry, I should have kept better control than that.”

“You still didn’t drink enough,” he rasped, trying to pull himself back together from the fissured shards he felt shattered into.

“It was too much—the taste of your blood sweetened and I—I drank for the taste of it rather than the need.”

Under the muddy water his toes curled in his boots and were he alone, he would have fisted his hand over his cock and spilled against his fingers from the shivery lance of spine deep pleasure the words filled him with. His mind spun in orbit, circling around the gravity well, Obi-Wan lost control over him, Obi-Wan put his lips on his skin and tongued his blood into his mouth because he liked it, for the pleasure of how sweet he tasted.

Fuck—

He clenched his fists against the earthen wall and fought with himself for a moment. Obi-Wan didn’t mean it like that. He tried to steady his breathing and slow the frantic thrum of his pulse. His master took pleasure from the taste of his blood just the same as pleasure from wine or chocolate, from good tea or kaf. It was his own want and kriffed up mind that managed to get off on his master’s need, what Anakin demanded he do so he wouldn’t starve to death.

Knowing didn’t stop him from coming with violently strong pulses into his own fist that night, to the singular thought of Obi-Wan’s tongue squirming against his skin and the smear of his own scarlet blood against his master’s mouth.

* * *

“You’re getting pale and cranky again.”

“I am not cranky,” Obi-Wan said hotly.

Rex, Cody, and Anakin all raised their eyebrows and eyed one another, even as Obi-Wan stooped over the holomap in his tent with a furrowed, strained expression. He glanced up when he realized the three of them remained silent and sighed. “I’m fine—”

“There’s a decent stash of blood bags left, sir,” Cody interjected with a steely vein to his tone. “Every single man in the 212th and 501st would gladly see you eat, General. We’re all worried about you.”

Obi-Wan threw Anakin a floundering expression before he looked back to the map. “I assure you I am eating, Commander. Neither you nor your men should worry.”

“Not enough,” Cody muttered under his breath.

Obi-Wan ignored him. “You will lead your men in tonight’s assault through the northern trenches while Captain Rex leads the attack from the southern trenches. Anakin and I will head the ground charge above the trenchline.”

After Cody and Rex left the tent, both throwing tense looks over their shoulders, Anakin leaned his hip against the table and crossed his arms, readying himself for a fight. Obi-Wan refused to look at him for several long minutes as he walked himself through the holomap, reworking the night’s battle plans again and again, before he finally sighed and braced his hands against the table.

“Twice was more than enough, Anakin, and I took more than I should have the last time. If our plans succeed, then tonight’s assault will break through the blockade.”

“Master, you going into battle tired and starving is a horrible idea. You’re pale as a corpse and if you walk out of this tent to lead the men looking the way you do I think Cody might have an aneurysm.”

The corner of Obi-Wan’s mouth lifted into a small, crooked smile and he glanced up, eyes shadowed by deep plum bruises. “I’m sure both Cody and I will survive.”

“Obi-Wan,” he put a hand on his shoulder to keep him from moving away from the table, “I begged you before and I’ll do it again, don’t think I have too much dignity for it. _Please—_ ”

Obi-Wan held up a hand and turned his face away from him. “You don’t understand. I—it’s different from drinking bagged blood, intoxicating almost and I can feel my control slipping. I do not trust myself and I _certainly_ do not trust you to keep me controlled.”

“That’s bantha shit, you couldn’t even come close to hurting me. You can’t drink more than is safe for me to give and whatever is in your venom makes me heal faster than lightspeed anyway.”

“You shouldn’t go into battle with blood loss more than I should go hungry. It’s not a risk I am willing to take.”

Anakin curled his fingers to clench his hand against Obi-Wan’s shoulders as he crowded him, angry and brimming with worry. “What a load of sithspit—I’m more than strong enough and you can barely stand on your own feet. This entire campaign you’ve been so desperate to flagellate yourself like you think you should be punished for having to drink blood. I’m not going to let you keep—”

“I am not punishing myself,” Obi-Wan bit back. “I merely refuse to deprive our dying men of medical supplies nor wound and weaken the man I—my padawan who is determined to be as reckless as humanly possible.”

“Stop acting like me giving you a little blood is going to drain me,” he snarled, pulled at Obi-Wan’s shoulder. “Just admit you don’t like being out of control and be done with it. You just can’t stand that you like it— _oomf!”_

Obi-Wan twisted his fingers in the front of his tunic and bodily shoved him so that Anakin sat on the edge of the table, wide eyed and startled to timid stillness.

“Why,” he bit around suddenly elongated fangs, “do you have to be so damned difficult?”

Some sparking thrill shot down his spine and he lifted his chin and clenched his jaw obstinately, even as he tilted his head to bare the long line of his throat. It was stupid—a kriffing stupid thing to do. There was no need for his master to bite his throat instead of his arm, no need to make it any more intimate or awkward than it already was, especially with how squirmy and uncomfortable Obi-Wan was being about it. But the dangerous anger in Obi-Wan’s glinting eyes and the sharp edge of his teeth sent his heart thudding and every prey instinct in his hindbrain shivering with aching delight.

Obi-Wan wrapped fingers against the back of his neck and snarled his name warningly, a thread of that years old and familiar exasperation pulling taught at the word breathed with such tension. “ _Anakin,”_ he gritted around his fangs.

He worked his mouth around a dry swallow that caught Obi-Wan’s gaze on the slow working of his throat. “ _Master.”_

They hung like that with a line pulled taught and the air heated to stillness between them while Obi-Wan held the back of his neck and Anakin blinked up at him, horribly aware of the way his pulse thudded underneath his master’s hand.

“Lift your arm for me,” Obi-Wan finally said.

“My throat would be easier.”

“It most certainly would _not,”_ he said exasperatedly.

Disappointment wound tight in his chest and he tried to push the feeling aside even as he tilted his jaw to offer the sinewy stretch of his throat with his heart in his mouth from nerves.

Obi-Wan froze and then whistled a ragged breath around his teeth. “Why is it,” he said tightly, “that you always seek to push me so?”

“Maybe I like making you angry,” he spit back without thinking.

Obi-Wan made an aggravated noise and tugged his head further to the side with a glinting expression. “Have it your way then.”

He arched into the twin points of pain against his taught skin and released a shaky and high-pitched whine at the way the achy burn sent shocks of pleasure clenching in his gut. Obi-Wan made a hurt noise against his throat and clenched his teeth, deepening the bite as he sucked at the wound and laved his tongue to lick at blood and tendon.

In a moment he transitioned from resolutely trying to wrangle his pleasure down and not squirm, to feeling so heated and desperate anything sounded worth the risk, even humiliating himself with his master’s teeth in his throat. Obi-Wan tugged gently at his curls to pull his head further back and he blinked, wide-eyed at the tent ceiling and sighed unsteadily.

Obi-Wan mumbled something around his teeth and mouthful of blood and Anakin fought with himself to work his mouth beyond sighs and stifled noises of pleasure. “What?” He finally mumbled back.

Obi-Wan pulled his mouth from his throat with a slick sound. “Your blood gets sweeter the longer I drink.”

He flushed and blinked to the side, unable to meet Obi-Wan’s blue eyes. Just knowing his pleasure tasted sweet made his cock leak against the seam of his pants and Obi-Wan ghosting a hot breath across his throat before he latched his lips back to blood smeared skin didn’t help.

“Mhh—” he sighed against Anakin’s neck and caught the sharp edge of his teeth against unbroken skin just below the bite, not firm enough to break skin but enough that it smarted. He squirmed his hips in a tight circle and moaned outright when his master sunk his teeth lower in his throat, closer to his collarbone than his jaw. It must have been a deeper bite from the wet sound that came after and the strong pulling sensation that made him flush, feverish, and pricking with sweat as his cock throbbed with his heartbeat.

Obi-Wan worked his jaw and painted his tongue against his flesh and all at once, with the heat swimming behind his eyes and the ache between his legs so fierce it brought tears to surface, it became too much. He fumbled his hand between them, under the long line of his tunic, and squeezed himself over his pants with a bitten off moan that caught on the back of his tongue.

Obi-Wan yanked his head back and with blood pearled dark and wet against his lips, he said sounding stunned, “you like this?”

Anakin swallowed thickly, aware of the ticklish trickle down his numbed throat. “I—I’m sorry, master—it feels,” he trailed off and closed his eyes on a wince, “it just feels so good.”

“You…like me biting you?”

He kept his eyes closed and wished the entire Separatist army would crash through the tent at that moment. “Yes, master,” he admitted. The only sound for a few long seconds, beyond the chaos of the camp around them that sounded muffled and a distant thing past the barrier of the tent, was their ragged breathing and Anakin’s own pulse in his ears.

“Oh,” Obi-Wan said as he stepped between Anakin’s legs and bent his head back down to lick the slow ooze of blood from his throat. “I know what that sweetness is.”

Anakin tremored and wondered if a battle droid would do him a favor of taking him out with a blaster.

“Go on, Anakin,” he rumbled.

He froze, his mind tripping over itself in a jumbled roll that ended in the tumultuous heap of gripping the edge of the table and trembling as he tipped his head back to bare his jugular to the seeking sear of his master’s lips. “What?”

Obi-Wan grabbed a fistful of his tunic and pulled him to the very edge of the table and widened the splay of Anakin’s legs with his own knees. “I thought you wanted it,” Obi-Wan nipped against his skin.

He stuttered, “yeah but—”

“I want you to touch yourself for me,” Obi-Wan groaned and gripped the inside of his thigh to pull his legs wider as he sucked against the wound throbbing with his pulse.

“ _Master—”_ he gasped out, shocked and aching and turned around all in one.

Obi-Wan dragged fangs up his throat and the thrill of it alone erased the last of his hesitancy so that he clumsily knocked his hand between his legs to grip himself and gasp from the gorgeous relief of it.

Obi-Wan groaned like the taste of him hurt as he sucked against his throat. “Mm—just like that, darling.”

“Fuck,” he shuddered out unevenly and scrabbled at his waistband, his hand shaking before he finally managed to wriggle his knuckles beneath the fabric and wrap his hand around his cock. They both whimpered and Obi-Wan pressed closer between his legs and put both hands on the back of Anakin’s head to arch back his neck and lave and suck at his bleeding wounds.

A few seconds of his hand curled around himself and the head of his cock already slipped through the ring of his fingers, swollen and sticky with precome. “What do I taste like?” He gasped out shakily.

Obi-Wan gasped back with the slick, wet noise of blood in his mouth and between his lips. “Like sunberry wine and spiced chocolate.” He licked thick crimson from his lips and drew back with a guilt laden expression. “And I have certainly taken too much I—”

“Will you kiss me then?” Anakin asked desperately, eyeing the dark glint of his master’s mouth, and felt himself leak into his fist just from the thought of it.

“I taste like blood, Anakin—”

“—I don’t care—I don’t—”

Obi-Wan yanked him forward so harshly he precariously tipped on the edge of the table before their mouths met, frantic and copper smeared. Obi-Wan did taste like blood, salty and pungently metallic, but the thought of it tasting sweet to him, of him swallowing it and like the way it tasted against his tongue, made Anakin’s stomach clench as he moaned, open mouthed against his master’s lips.

“Was it actually enough or are you just lying?”

Obi-Wan bit at his lower lip in retaliation and he squeezed himself as he sighed into the open heat of Obi-Wan’s mouth and enjoyed the thick curl of pleasure in his gut.

“It was enough,” Obi-Wan said tightly.

Anakin released his slick, aching cock and pawed at Obi-Wan’ belt self-consciously, suddenly aware that he was splayed with blood smeared across his throat, and his pants shucked down while Obi-Wan stood fully clothed and impenetrable save for the telling redness to his lips.

“Are you—?”

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes and grabbed Anakin’s hand to squeeze over the hard line of his cock. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“How was I supposed to know,” he complained hotly, flushed, and clumsy as he felt how hard Obi-Wan was in his hand.

Obi-Wan honest to force tsked as he shoved his tunics and pants back just far enough to pull his thick cock above his waistband and into Anakin’s sweaty fist. “You thought something as intimate as this wouldn’t affect me, that tasting the sweetness of your pleasure wouldn’t make me hard for you?”

“Fuck,” he breathed shakily as Obi-Wan pressed into the splayed vee of his long legs and fisted both of their cocks in his hand. Anakin fumbled his own flesh hand between them just to rub his fingers against their slick heads and hiss from the nerve singed too much—not enough of it.

Obi-Wan knocked their foreheads together and furrowed his eyebrows, looking near in pain as he watched himself work them together in tight, quick strokes, slicked just perfect from precome and the scorching heat of his palm.

Anakin’s stomach jumped dangerously, his muscles tightening to quiver with the cresting tide of pleasure coiling in his gut. “Obi-Wan,” he wobbled, “please—” and arched the aching, bruised line of his throat in invitation.

Obi-Wan snarled a curse under his breath and Anakin shivered at the growing familiar sound of his fangs snicking through gums before he grazed his teeth where he was already tender and sank them into his skin. He squirmed against the shocky pain, near too much after three separate bites no matter how fast they healed. But in the time it took to wince his neck fell from flushed to numb so that all he knew was sucking pressure and Obi-Wan’s tongue pressed against the bites to work the blood from them.

Between the heated spark of pain and the way Obi-Wan’s cock jumped against his the moment he broke skin, he balanced on the edge of orgasm with an aching lurch.

But the sound Obi-Wan made, tremulous and wet against his skin, like someone punched the air from his stomach, shook him into the swooping release of orgasm and he squirmed, open mouthed and panting as he pulsed over his master’s hand.

Obi-Wan whined, delicate and high-pitched against his throat from whatever he tasted in Anakin’s blood and shuddered as he came after Anakin in hot spurts between them.

The moment they both stopped shivering Obi-Wan pulled his teeth from Anakin’s throat and kissed the wounds with apology. “I shouldn’t have done that again; these wounds will take longer to heal then just the one.”

“I don’t care,” Anakin rasped, glancing down to the mess of come between them, force it was even on their tunics, for stars’ sakes.

Obi-Wan put a hand on his shoulder and eyed him seriously, though the effect felt lessened with his eyes glossy and the blood smeared against the corner of his mouth. “I do, and I realize—we may want to protect one another—but we shouldn’t—not like this again, not before battle.”

“You needed the blood,” he protested and glared upwards into Obi-Wan’s twinkling eyes.

Obi-Wan brushed his knuckles against Anakin’s cheek fondly and smiled his favorite smile, the one that creased the corners of his eyes and flashed his top row of teeth, which was admittedly a little more intriguing when they glinted still reddened by blood.

“But not that much, that was—that was because I wanted it.”

He shivered and even though he stewed in a fresh wash of endorphins from his orgasm, his stomach flipped at the words. “What did me coming taste like?”

Obi-Wan kissed him. “Like starlight, darling.”


End file.
